


Dillon, Texas

by Tieleen



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:13:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tieleen/pseuds/Tieleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She calls him an hour after shift change, because Mindy called to say her next Wackjob Ex is going out of town at ten the next morning and she has to break into their apartment to get her stuff back. Tyra would almost rather just go to school, seriously, but it's not like she's going to do both in one morning.</i> Pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dillon, Texas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Livelongandmarry auction. Beta reading by the always-awesome Kael.

She calls him an hour after shift change, because Mindy called to say her next Wackjob Ex is going out of town at ten the next morning and she has to break into their apartment to get her stuff back. Tyra would almost rather just go to school, seriously, but it's not like she's going to do both in one morning.

"Hey," he says, his voice warm and a little slurred, just awake. Tim's sleeping voice is like an extra-dose version of his regular one; she grins at the ugly print over the back counter without even meaning to.

"It's four PM," she tells him. "You're a bum."

She can hear that he's smiling too. "Hey, I worked hard this Friday. I deserve some rest. Mac told me himself."

"Mac McGill told you that? Maybe he thought you were Street."

He laughs, just a breath of sound. "No, don't think so. He wasn't offering to have my babies or anything like that."

"Wow," she says, and ignores Maureen when she waves at her to hurry up, like there are more than three tables taken or like Tyra hasn't covered for her plenty of times. "If I was Street I'd be thinking real hard if I really wanted to go for those touchdowns, if that's what he gets for it."

"Well, J's a family guy," Tim says.

"Okay, that's a scary image," Tyra says. She pauses, fingers drumming on the counter. "Listen, you want to go somewhere later? I feel like getting drunk."

Tim yawns. There's a clatter of unidentifiable things in the background — probably looking for a shirt that could pass the disgusting smell test in a pile of ones that died without making it. "I don't know, maybe. I might be doing something with the guys later."

"_Tell_ me you're not going to egg some stupid house at Arnett Mead," she says, but it's not like she's getting her hopes up.

He makes an amused sound. "I didn't say that."

"Yeah, well," Tyra says. "You have fun with that."

They must have run out of eggs, though, because when she comes out of the parking lot he's waiting for her, leaning against his truck and squinting in the sun. He holds up a six-pack when she comes nearer.

"I was thinking maybe something stronger," she says, and reaches to check if she has enough on her — Tim can usually be counted on to supply the ID — but he raises his other hand above the cars still between them; Jack Daniels. Excellent.

She goes around the corner of the last car and leans against him, full-length, and he grins back at her from two inches away, moving easily so his back is to the truck door, his hands still holding the booze at their sides.

"Good choice, huh?" he says.

"Perfect," Tyra says.  


* * *

  
There's plenty of spots around Dillon where people go to get drunk, or have sex, or both. For how much open space there is, it's pretty amazing how much of it you'll usually find some car parked on. It's too early for that, and a school night, but they drive a little further out anyway.

"You get a sleeping bag?" she says. "We could go by my house."

"We can just go there later," Tim says, adjusting the visor.

"Right," Tyra says. "I'm not sitting here while you try to drive on half a bottle of Jack."

He flicks her an amused look. "So what, you want to be designated driver?"

"No," she says. "I want to get a sleeping bag. You want to head over to my house or not?"

Tim tilts his head a little, towards the back seat, his hair swinging with it. "Got some blankets back there."

The blankets, amazingly, pass Tyra's smell test, which is a lot more vicious than Tim's. It's probably better not to wonder beyond that.

She opens a beer and finds some decent music on the radio. They trade sips all the way out, Tim's hand warm against her own when she passes him the can.  


* * *

  
They end up just moving things around in the truck bed, setting up the blankets there. Tim leans back against the window when she settles in against his side, laying his head on the glass, and when she turns her head to look up at him she can see the faint reflection of his hair against it, and the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks.

"So yeah," he says. "He told Billy he could sell him a catalytic converter for half that, and Billy thinks it'll be pretty good condition, so I guess we'll try that."

Tyra snorts. "Sounds to me like you're about to spend a hell of a lot of money for something that'll probably make your truck blow up in two weeks."

She's not holding her breath about that one either, though. Tim absolutely loves bad decisions; once he's picked one you can't move him an inch. For one thing, that's the only reason she's ever been able to find for why he acts like taking Billy's advice is a smart move. It doesn't usually stop her from trying anyway, but she doesn't really feel like pointless arguing this evening.

"Better let Street know he'll be driving you around for the rest of the month," she says.

"Oh yeah?" Tim steals the bottle, grins at her over the neck before tipping it up. "You're gonna leave me stuck with Six and Garrity every day?"

"She'd give you her seat," Tyra says, a little sourly. "Doesn't she have about three cars?"

"Probably," Tim agrees easily.

"Don't smirk at me," Tyra says. "She's a bitch."

"Sure," Tim says, smirking some more.

"Just because you're used to her being around all the time — don't tell me you don't think she's a stuck-up priss."

"I don't know," Tim says. "I mean, she's pretty stiff. We don't really talk that much. She makes Six happy."

Tyra groans. "I don't even know how we started talking about her. So, if we're talking about happy jocks, how was the party last night?"

Tim shrugs. "It was a party." He doesn't go into what he did with who, but he also doesn't start telling her all about how he _didn't_ do anything with no rally girls, and that's something she always appreciates.

The one thing Tyra likes best about Tim Riggins — and there are actually a lot of things she likes about him, sometimes she's surprised by how many — is that he never tries to play things like they're perfect together. Tim's never in his life sweet-talked anybody, although she's watched more than one girl sweet-talk herself to save him the trouble. He's never, not once, tried to sell her anything at all.

In Tyra's experience, the worst thing a guy can do to you is convince you that you need him, or he needs you. No, actually, the worst thing is when you convince yourself. But there's always somebody around just too happy to help you with that.

"You could come next time, you know," Tim points out.

Tyra makes a gagging sound, intercepts the bottle when he changes hands. "Football parties? I'll pass. I mean, not like I have anything against standing around for three hours worshipping the team, you know, I'm sure the team really needs it and all, but it's not really my thing."

"Hey, it's not all worshipping the team." Her head is tipped against his shoulder, her face tilted in; too far back for her to see the movement, she can feel his fingers running down her hair, lightly, just once. "There's some dancing, too."

"Well, you want _dancing_," she says, "Lisa Dunn might be doing something next weekend. Her brother's band's apparently getting a keg if her folks go out of town."

"Yeah, that could be good," Tim says.

Her head's starting to feel a little floaty; she'd probably better switch to beer soon if she wants to avoid killing Mindy in the morning. She shifts down a bit and lets him have the bottle. He's playing with her hair again, though she can barely feel it, almost just the wind.

Tim takes a sip and lays his head back again, breathing out slowly. When she glances up at him his eyes are closed, shadow lashes even longer against his skin.

Maybe life will always be like this, she thinks, closing her eyes as well and turning her head into where Tim's shirt collar just smells of him and sun, even a hint of laundry detergent. Maybe this is what there is, everything ahead where you can see it. Right this minute, she thinks she'll be just fine with that.


End file.
